"Chapel-"
"You'll be safe here. This plane looks like a normal corporate jet, but it's actually been uparmored. It's designed to resist small-arms fire. I know that every time we separate something bad happens, but-"
"Chapel, okay! I get it. You can't take me with you this time."
"It would be kind of hard to explain to the judge what you're doing here. I can't really pass you off as my secretary."
Julia rolled her eyes. "I said I get it. I'll stay here."
"You don't seem very happy about it," he pointed out. He'd expected that, of course. "I know you don't like being left in the dark. The last time I left you behind . . . I can only say I'm sorry about that. I promise this time is different."
"It's not that," Julia said.
"No?"
"No." She reached over and put a hand on his cheek. That he hadn't expected at all. "It's not that at all."
"What happened to our professional arrangement?" he asked, before he could stop himself.
"Chapel, for a guy whose job is to keep secrets, sometimes you don't know when to shut up," she said. He saw in her eyes then that she was upset, definitely-but for once she was not upset with him.
"What's going on?" he asked, softly.
"It's what I see in your eyes. You're leaving me here because you don't expect to come back, yourself." She looked down at her lap. "You think you're going to die here."
"It's not like I want to," he tried.
She pressed her face against his chest. "You could just say no. You could quit. You could tell them all to fuck themselves and then run away. We could run away."
Chapel stroked her hair. For a while he just held her.
Then he whispered, "No. No, I can't."
That wasn't who he was.
She nodded against his chest. "Chapel. You go do what you have to do. When you're done, I'll be here, waiting for you so we can fly off on our next big adventure. Okay? I'll be right here."
They waited together in silence while CPO Andrews opened the hatch and readied the debarkation stairs.
DENVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, COLORADO: APRIL 14, T+55:36
One of the black-suited men was waiting for Chapel when he came down the jet's stairs. The security guard did not offer to shake his hand. "Captain Chapel," he said, in a flat voice, "welcome to Denver. We're to take you directly to His Honor."
"Sure," Chapel said. "He's at the courthouse, right?"
"My instructions are to take you to him," the guard said.
"Are you Reinhard?" Chapel asked.
"I'm just here to take you to him," the guard repeated.
"Fine." Chapel walked over to the nearest car. The guard at least held the door for him. "You've been given orders not to answer any questions, right?"
"I've been given orders to escort you to His Honor," the guard told him.
After that Chapel kept his mouth shut.
The three cars headed out of the airport and up a major highway toward the city. Outside the airport, broad fields cut by irrigation ditches lay yellow and bedraggled in the sun. The sky was huge. Chapel had been out west before, and should have known to expect it, but still it was always a surprise. The flat land of the prairies meant you could see for miles in every direction, and that made the sky just look bigger than it did back east.
The effect wasn't diminished much even when the cars rolled through a zone of strip malls and old box stores, auto parts warehouses and colossal Laundromats, all of them looking dusty and worn. This part of Denver had no trees, just broad roads laid out in a perfectly square grid. The car rolled down Colfax Avenue, through a zone of strip clubs and bars, and soon enough Chapel could see the city's handful of skyscrapers sticking up from the flat ground ahead of them.
At the courthouse the cars pulled into an underground lot, and Chapel blinked as they left the sun behind. Someone opened Chapel's door, and he stepped out onto concrete that stank of old motor oil.
"This way," the security guard said. He wore his sunglasses even indoors.
Chapel was ushered up an elevator and through a small office where a dozen State Highway Patrol troopers were drinking coffee and talking about football. This must be the security detail he was supposed to take over, but none of them would even meet his eye. His black-suited escort didn't let him linger in that office but directed him through and into a larger office beyond.
Judge Franklin Hayes was waiting there for him, looking almost exactly as he had when he'd broken into Angel's line to demand Chapel's presence. The judge hadn't shaved in a day or so and steel-colored stubble had broken out on his cheeks. He looked just as angry as he had when they'd spoken.
"Took you long enough," Hayes said.
DENVER, COLORADO: APRIL 14, T+57:01
Hayes steepled his fingers in front of him and glared at Chapel. "You're seven hours late, Captain." He turned to his security guard. "This is Reinhard, my head of security. He's been in charge here since you refused to come earlier."
Reinhard was a big guy, broad through the shoulders like a linebacker, though not much taller than Chapel. He had a crew cut and a strong jaw, but his eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. Even without seeing his eyes, though, Chapel could tell the man was giving him the once-over.
"Doesn't look like much," Reinhard said.
Hayes chuckled. "Oh, Chapel's got his qualifications. Director Banks was happy to send them along. He's a war hero, Reinhard. Lost his arm in Afghanistan, fighting for your freedom."
"A cripple, then," Reinhard said.
"All the best military training. He served with the Army Rangers, that's quite an elite force," Hayes went on, smiling. The judge had the look of a career politician. He'd probably had acting lessons to be able to look so jovial and friendly. But his eyes gave him away. They were like chips of glass in his face. Hard and cold. "Of course, that was several years ago."
"He does look pretty old," Reinhard agreed.
"Come, come. He's had plenty of time to mature and gain wisdom, let's say." Hayes put his hands down on the desk. "Plenty of time for that. He hasn't seen much field service since he lost his arm, of course . . ."
"So they sent you a desk jockey," Reinhard grunted. "Huh."
"Are you suggesting he isn't the best man for the job?" Hayes asked, a look of fake shock creasing his face. "Are you suggesting they could have sent someone better?"
"Maybe one of the rent-a-cops who works over at the mall," Reinhard said.
Chapel fumed in silence.
He understood this game. He knew what Hayes wanted to get across but was too slick to say outright. The judge hadn't gotten as far in his career as he had without knowing how to lay on a good line of bullshit, but still make himself understood.
He was saying he didn't trust Chapel. He was also saying he did trust Reinhard, his own man, and that he wanted to keep Reinhard in charge and let Chapel play second fiddle here.
Time to fix that.
"Your Honor," he said, "you'll want to move to your left."
Hayes didn't have time to ask why before Chapel's pistol was out, held tight in his right hand and pointed at Reinhard's throat. The security guard was smart enough to keep his hands visible and not flinch.
"Take off your sunglasses," Chapel said.
"I'll be damned if-"
"Take them off now," Chapel insisted, using his best officer voice.
Hayes scooted to the left in his rolling chair.
Slowly, using both hands, Reinhard reached up and took off his sunglasses. His eyes were a cold blue. They narrowed as he stared at Chapel. "You just bought yourself some trouble," he said. "And you were already fully stocked."
"Shut up," Chapel told him.
A lamp with a brass shade sat on Hayes's desk. Chapel grabbed it and shone the light directly in Reinhard's eyes.
"-the fuck," Reinhard said, squinting, turning his face away from the light.
"Okay. He's clean," Chapel said, and put the lamp back on the desk. "Reinhard, you go outside and find your men. Tell every one of them to remove his sunglasses and keep them off. Nobody's wearing sunglasses today. You got it?"
"Why the hell should I-"
"The judge knows why," Chapel said.
Reinhard turned to look at Hayes, who just nodded. The security guard shook his head in disgust and stormed out of the office.
Chapel holstered his weapon, then went over to close the door.
"Huh," Hayes said. "I hadn't thought of that. If he was a chimera, his nictitating membranes would have closed, by reflex."
Chapel nodded.
"I've known Reinhard for years," Hayes pointed out. "You think I'm dumb enough to let one of the monsters join my team?"
Chapel inhaled sharply through his nose. "I haven't made up my mind yet how dumb you are," he said.
Hayes's face started to turn red, but Chapel wasn't about to let him talk. He would just spout more insults or threats, and that wasn't getting them anywhere.
"I'm here to do one job, which is to keep you alive," Chapel pointed out. "Sometimes you may want to doubt my methods or to question my orders. Don't. I've taken down two chimeras in the last two days. I know how it's done. Reinhard clearly doesn't even know what they are. He doesn't know what to expect. He doesn't know how dangerous they really are."
"He knows how to shoot," Hayes said.
"No. No, he doesn't. Not this time. I don't know where he got his training-if he's ex-military or he just took a six-week correspondence course out of the back of Guns and Ammo. It doesn't matter. Whoever taught him to shoot told him to always aim for center mass. That doesn't work with chimeras. They have reinforced rib cages. You can put six slugs in a chimera, right over his heart, and it won't even slow him down. You have to aim for the face. Their skulls are just like ours."
Hayes opened his mouth. He looked like he was going to say something nasty. But then he closed it again and just nodded.
"Okay," the judge said. "We've got a little time before the convoy is ready to move out. Why don't you have a seat, so we can talk?"
DENVER, COLORADO: APRIL 14, T+57:12
"First off, let's talk about why I'm here. The chimeras," Chapel said. He kept one eye on the window. It was unlikely that Quinn would climb up the side of the courthouse to get to the office, but you never knew. "I'm sorry I'm late getting here. But I wasn't wasting that time. I've learned a great deal about them in the last two days."
"Oh?" Hayes asked.
"I don't know how much you're cleared to know," Chapel said. "But you do need to know what's coming for you. It's a chimera named Quinn. He's supposed to be the strongest of them, and one of the most vicious."
Hayes turned around and got a bottle of bourbon out of a sideboard. He offered Chapel a glass, but he turned it down. "Maybe I don't want to know some of this," he said, pouring himself a healthy drink. His tough guy act had evaporated like summer rain on a hot sidewalk. Interesting.
Chapel shook his head. "I'm not trying to scare you. But you need to understand how serious this is. The chimeras were given a list of victims. A kill list. For the most part they were allowed to choose their own targets. But this Quinn was given specific orders to come here. For you."
"Okay," Hayes said. He sipped at his liquor. "Okay, but-why?"
"That's exactly what I'd like to know." Chapel sighed. "Some of the names on the list make sense. The scientists who created the chimeras are there. People who worked at Camp Putnam. I notice you aren't asking a lot of questions here. You know about Camp Putnam."
Hayes set his glass down. "Tom Banks is a personal friend of mine," he said, meeting Chapel's eye. "He gave me a briefing. One I'm definitely not cleared for. But he agreed with you-I needed to know."
Chapel nodded. He'd assumed as much, though he'd hoped there was another reason Hayes knew so much about the chimeras. "Some of the names on the list don't make any sense at all. There are three people on that list who couldn't possibly have been involved in the project. People with no connection to Camp Putnam. And then there's you."
"Me?" Hayes said. "I've never been to that place."
Chapel shrugged. "Your link to the chimeras seems pretty tangential. But it's real. You worked for the CIA at one point. You did yearly debriefings of people the agency wanted to keep an eye on. Specifically, you debriefed William Taggart and Helen Bryant."
Hayes blinked rapidly. "Sure. They were a couple of scientists. Biologists, I think. A little creepy, as I recall. I always assumed they worked in germ warfare."
"You debriefed them but you didn't know why they were being checked up on?"
Hayes frowned. "That was common practice back then. CIA practice. Everything was cutouts; nobody knew anybody else's business. That's why they got a lawyer to do the debriefings in the first place. I wasn't privy to anything truly sensitive, so they could trust me not to give away any secrets by accident."
That jibed with what Chapel knew of the CIA and its culture of compartmentalized information, but he was still surprised. "How did you even know what to ask them?"
"I had a script," Hayes said. " 'In the last year, have you met with or spoken by telephone with anyone who identified themselves as an official of a foreign nation? Has anyone you don't know approached you in a social situation and asked questions you felt uncomfortable answering?' That kind of stuff. It was really just a checklist-they would say no to every question, I would make marks on a form, and then I would go home. I debriefed a lot of people. Scientists, defectors, former radicals who claimed to have gone straight. It was just part of my job."
Chapel nodded. That wasn't helpful at all-he'd really hoped Hayes might have known something about Taggart and Bryant that he didn't-but at least it was one small mystery cleared up. There was another one, though. "You were also counsel when Christina Smollett sued the CIA."
"Who?"
Chapel gritted his teeth. "A mentally ill woman in New York City. The suit was probably brought by her parents. She claimed the CIA was sending people into her bedroom at night to sexually assault her."
Hayes made a disgusted face. "There were always cases like that. I hated them. Those people were obviously suffering, but it wasn't our fault. It was my job to get rid of them as quickly as possible. Preferably without spending any money."
"You don't remember this case in particular?" Chapel asked.
"No. I could go through my old files," he offered.
Chapel held up a hand. "No need."
"Why her?" Hayes asked. "Why did you bring her up?"
Chapel leaned to the side and tilted his head a little to the left. Was there sweat on Hayes's forehead? Just a trace. Not enough he would even notice it. And his pupils were a little dilated, Chapel decided.
Interesting.
Extremely interesting.
"Her name came up in one of my investigations, but it's probably nothing," Chapel said. No point in telling the judge that Christina Smollett was on the kill list.
Not when Hayes was lying to him about not knowing who she was.
Hayes was a good liar. He'd been a lawyer, once, so it made sense-he'd been trained how to keep his cards close to his vest. But Chapel had been trained in military interrogation techniques. He could spot the telltales. He knew when someone was withholding facts from him.
Hayes knew exactly who Christina Smollett was, Chapel was sure of it. And he knew why she was on the list.
DENVER, COLORADO: APRIL 14, T+57:36
"All right, let's move on," Chapel said, because he knew better than to push-if he started demanding information now, Hayes would just shut down and refuse to talk at all. There might be time to ask more questions later. "Talk to me about this itinerary. I understand you plan to move to a different location. Somewhere I'm not allowed to know about until we get there."
"I've already seen that your systems can be hacked," Hayes told him. "And Tom-Director Banks-told me that whoever released the chimeras has access to military technology. Apparently they used a Predator drone to break open Camp Putnam."
Chapel hadn't known that. He filed it away for later review. Right now he had to focus on keeping Hayes alive.
"I think it's a bad move to change locations now. You'll never be more vulnerable than when you're in transit."
"Whoever is giving the chimeras their instructions already knows I'm here. What they don't know is the new location."
"Which is?" Chapel asked.
Hayes surprised him by actually telling him. "I have a house up in the foothills of the Rockies. A little place outside of Boulder."
"Is it secure? Can it be secured?"
"It's six acres of land, mostly forested. All of it fenced. There's one private road leading to it so we don't have to worry about traffic. It's hard to find if you don't know where to look, and it's not listed under my name-technically it belongs to my ex-wife, but she's in Washington State now and won't be dropping by."
So, Chapel thought, it's distant from the local police, and if they needed help it would be a long time coming. One road leading in meant only one escape route if they needed to flee. Forested land was Quinn's favored terrain-it was where he'd grown up. Add to that the usual problems of a rural location: spotty cellular coverage (if any), frequent power outages, and it would be pitch-dark at night.
But Hayes did have a point. The Voice, the author of the kill list, wouldn't know where they were going. And he'd been right to keep the information from Chapel as well-the last thing they needed was a repeat of Stone Mountain.
"Okay. We'll leave tonight, about two in the morning-"
"The convoy is gathering right now," Hayes said. "Reinhard has overseen everything. We'll leave as soon as the lunchtime rush hour is over."
Chapel sat back in his chair. He had pushed Hayes hard enough already. Maybe it was time to ease up a bit. Still, it wouldn't hurt to try reasoning with him. "It would be safer at night. I'd also like to get you in a nondescript car. The black sedans your people use will make good decoys, but if you're in a different car, then even if Quinn attacks during the transfer you'll be safe."
"I'm taking my limousine," Hayes said, in a voice that wouldn't brook disagreement.
Chapel sighed. "I've been trained in how to do this," he said.
"So has Reinhard."
Chapel shook his head. "I was flippant about it before, but really, whoever trained him had no idea what this situation was going to be like."
"I've known Reinhard for nearly ten years," Hayes said. "I trust him. He's kept me safe through riots and protests and death threats from some of the most hardened criminals in Colorado. You, Captain Chapel, I've known in person for less than an hour. When we get to the house, he'll accept your command. You can see to security there as you please. But right now I'm putting my life in his hands."
"Okay," Chapel said. "At least let me oversee the embarkation. The absolute most dangerous time is when you move from this office to your vehicle. I'll feel better if I'm watching you while you make that switch."
"As you wish," Hayes said.
IN TRANSIT: APRIL 14, T+58:39
Chapel managed to get the judge into his limo and moving out without incident. If Quinn was nearby, he didn't show himself. Chapel supposed that was the best he could hope for, at the moment. The sedans, several troopers on motorcycles, and a highway patrol vehicle formed up in a loose convoy, headed north.
Hollingshead had said it wouldn't be enough. Hollingshead had been certain of that.
Chapel rode with one of the troopers, in the patrol cruiser, at the back of the convoy. Out on the road, under the big western sky, an attack could come from any direction. He strained his neck trying to look every way at once.
The mountains off to the west were wrapped in the green majesty of heavy pine growth, dappled here and there by the shadows of clouds that streamed across the big sky as fast as trailing smoke. It was a spectacle that might have taken Chapel's breath away any other time.
"Are we likely to hit much traffic?" Chapel asked his driver, a grizzled old state trooper named Young.
She shrugged. "Could be. The road to Boulder is pretty heavily traveled all times of day. I've had no reports of congestion so far, but if there's an accident . . . well, these roads really weren't meant for all the people on 'em. There's four million people in the entire state of Colorado, and two million of 'em live in this corridor, between Fort Collins and Colorado Springs."
"Great," Chapel said. He watched civilian vehicles go whizzing by on his left. They were moving fast enough he couldn't get a good look inside any of them. Quinn wouldn't know how to drive, himself, but the chimera in New York had proven how easy it was for one of them to commandeer a vehicle.
If Quinn was coming from the north, headed toward them, it would be easy enough to veer into oncoming traffic and ram the limo. Even a chimera would know the long car was where the judge would be. At highway speeds, that kind of collision might kill the judge outright.
Chapel touched the hands-free unit in his ear. "Is the judge wearing a seat belt?" he asked.
"No, he is not," Reinhard called back. "Keep this channel clear, Captain. My men might need it in an emergency."
Chapel shook his head. There was something wrong here. Reinhard was acting like this was just a Sunday drive and Chapel's paranoia was irritating him, rather than reassuring him like it should.
"Get the judge belted in. If someone rams the limo, he'll go bouncing around in there like a pebble in a tin can, otherwise. And keep that screen of motorcycles tight in his front left quadrant."
"We're doing good, Captain. I want this channel clear. If you have any more suggestions, keep them to yourself."
Chapel watched a civilian car try to overtake them. A motorcycle drifted out to their right to block its advance. The civilian honked his horn but eventually got the point.
"If it's any consolation, I think you were right," Young said.
Chapel glanced across at the driver. "About what?"
"About the seat belt. You know how many people we have to scoop out of wrecks every year? That's half our job in the summer," Young said. "If people would actually wear those belts, a lot of them would survive."